


Counting the Dead

by pariahpirate



Category: Overwatch (Video Game)
Genre: Gen, Omnic Racism, PTSD.Va, Self-Harm, Self-Mutilation, Unhealthy Coping Mechanisms, and Rat, canon has been slowroasted and carved for the juicy bits, mentions of underaged sex, ymmv
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2016-09-24
Updated: 2016-09-24
Packaged: 2018-08-17 02:50:29
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,308
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/8127532
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/pariahpirate/pseuds/pariahpirate
Summary: Busan drowned. The giant Omnic came and pulled your home down into the sea. Buildings and people were strewn in pieces along the shoreline. You remember walking across the wet sands, leaving bloodied footprints and counting the dead as the sea carried them away.





	

**Author's Note:**

> I had written this a while ago and was unsatisfied but then Hana's new Eichenwalde line in the PRT, the "reminds me of home" line? Yeah that inspired me to rework and post this asap. Gotta be the first to tap into the sad potential here

You named yourself, because you had nobody and nothing. You named yourself, because nobody else was around to do it, and a name was essential to leaving. You knew you had to leave. It was instinctual, almost, this fear. To escape the fear, you needed to leave, and to leave, you needed a name. You chose ‘Hana Song’. There wasn’t any rhyme or reason to it. It was just the first name you came up with. It wasn’t like it called out to you or fit or anything. In fact, it was just something written on the cover of a half-torn up book. You could barely read, barely understand it - so you probably got it wrong, and what you thought the cover said might not have been what it said at all. Not that it ever mattered. Even thinking back on it, it never mattered. It doesn’t matter.

 

It served its purpose. You had a name, so you had a way out. There were hundreds like you, unlike you, who lacked a name. They lacked a way out.

 

You were about to leave. You had a plan and everything was set up. You were going to escape to further in, away from the coastline. You were going to be safe. Maybe even get adopted and have a family. But Busan got attacked. Busan drowned. The giant Omnic came and pulled your home down into the sea. Buildings and people were strewn in pieces along the shoreline. You remember walking across the wet sands, leaving bloodied footprints and counting the dead as the sea carried them away.

 

You were ‘rescued’ not too long after that, only hours after the great monster departed once again beneath the terror of the sea. You had watched it go from the beach, detached from everything like a ghost. You don’t remember much of it at all, other than it felt so strange. So strange. It was almost as if you were no longer real. How long must you have stood there, as the salt water waves lapped at your feet and stung your wounds? How many bodies did you see get carried away by the tide? How deep a red did Busan’s blood dye the harbor, dye the water?

 

You don’t remember. Can’t remember. Won’t remember. Maybe it’s for the best.

 

Men and women in bright uniforms found you and picked you up. Scooped you right up and carried you off. They bandaged your feet and asked you questions that you answered with lies.

 

“What is your name?” They asked.

 

“Hana Song.” You lied. You didn’t know the truth.

 

“How old are you?” They asked.

 

“I’m seven.” You lied. You didn’t know the truth.

“Where are your parents?” They asked.

 

“The ocean took them.” You lied. You didn’t know the truth.

 

The men and women in their bright uniforms took you away then. They lifted you up and settled you into a wheelchair that was much too large for you, and the wheeled you down a maze of concrete hallways choked with people. Sobbing people. Angry people. Victims of the monster, of the Omnic. The men and women in the bright uniforms wheeled you into a large room filled with other children, each of them injured like you. In a week’s time, everyone was gone, shipped out to other places in South Korea with prayers and hopes for better lives.

 

You were among the last to go. You had been elated. Over the moon. You were leaving. This is what you had wanted for so long. Oh you were so wrong. 

 

You had thought that by leaving you’d be able to escape the fear. That you’d be okay. Safe. You were wrong. Nobody in South Korea was safe from the Omnic threat. You learned quickly what it was to feel things, even if all you could feel was hate. You hated it. You hated them. You hated everything and you grew up fighting. 

 

Nobody really liked you because of that. You were smaller than you should have been, and far more trouble than you were worth. But fighting was all you ever knew. Fighting and running. You didn’t know any other life. So you left. You left the foster system, left the foster homes they placed you in and never looked back. The streets suited you just fine.

 

Ulsan - Gimhae - Gwangyang - Haman - Miryang - Daegu -

 

One of the orphans in the gang you ran with during your time in Daegu was named Sun. She was a bit bigger than you and she claimed to be older than you claimed to be too. She was a liar like you too. You might have loved her, if you thought you were capable of loving people. In your experience, then and now, people didn’t last very long. People weren’t worth loving. Especially when you were uprooted by Omnic attacks and every two or so years, the Monster of the Sea itself.

 

Sun though - Sun was your very first friend.

 

It was her knife. It was her knife that started the habit. The habit that you both shared.

 

It started early. Maybe if you knew your real age, you’d be able to chart it better. Counting the dead was always something you seemed to do, but you’d lose count eventually. It was something Sun picked up on, and something she seemed to understand instinctively. She understood and knew that this was something you had to do. Unlike Yoona, who had feared and avoided you for it, or Ji Yong, who interrupted and messed up your counting, Sun understood. She joined you.

 

She gave you the knife.

 

It was a tiny little thing, something she had filched from the grocer two streets over from your alley. The handle was dark red and the blade was absurdly sharp. Sun would hand you the knife and you’d choose a place. A quick even cut, made deep enough to scar. Then you’d hand the knife back over to Sun, and she would do the same. You’d both pick the scabs just to make sure the mark scarred. You never lost count after that. 

 

The tallies began to pile up. More and more and more. You never lost count again. Sometimes you even remembered which tally was which. Sometimes the stories stayed with you. At some point Sun vanished. You didn’t mourn her disappearance. Kids disappeared off the streets all the time. You remember taking off your shirt that night, the knife pressed against the skin above your heart. You never did make a tally for Sun. You don’t know why. Disappeared always meant dead. Sun was gone so she was dead but you couldn’t bring yourself to make her tally.

 

You carried on. Left. 

 

Chilgok - Gumi - Sangju -

 

You found real love in an arcade in Sangju. The concept of video games enchanted you. You stole pocket change to play. You might have jumped around, city to city, in the struggle to stay free from the foster care system, but video games were constant - and you were good at them. You were oh-so good at them. Quick fingers, used to pickpocketing and pulling punches, found a second home on the pads and buttons of controllers. You found love there. It was just like real life, video games, except intensified. Colorful. Loud. Exhilarating. One mistake and you died. One smooth manoeuvre, and you became the hero. The winner.

 

You took it as a life lesson, and began to live by it.

 

It was … difficult at first. After running and living with the fear for so long, it was difficult to just discard. It was something you had to work at. But as video games had taught you, that was just the grind. Grinding was tedious. Painful. Booring. Frustrating. But at the end of the grind, you’re stronger for it. Levels above every enemy the game can throw at you. Invincible! The Master!

 

It was a mistake, you were told, but they didn’t understand. They were too caught up in their own fear. They were too busy, spreading their fear in hushed whispers over grocery counters and coffee house chit-chat.  _ Did you hear? They say movement has been detected in the ocean. Did you hear? They say the tremors are getting worse. Did you hear? The Omnics are going to kill us. _ They were consumed by fear and were pathetic to their core. They didn’t know you. They didn’t know you at all. You discarded your fear after ages of living tethered by it. You were free. Liberated. You just tossed all that fear aside, traded it for something better. Traded it for fun.

 

Why couldn’t more people do this? It’s so much better. Easier.

 

There are thirty-four tally marks on your body when you take on the Starcraft Champion in 2073 with a stolen free-public-access library computer, drastically modified to make it all work. Eleven on your left thigh. Six on your upper right arm. Ten circling your right thigh. Two on your stomach. Three on your hip. Two on your mid back. You think of them as your small audience of alley kids crowd around your screen and hold their breath. You think of them when you crush the former champion into the metaphorical dirt. 

 

You are ‘sixteen’ and boy you pick up at your post-game celebration is ‘eighteen’. That’s old enough to accept his offer of a drink at the bar next door. That’s old enough to accept the offer of a shared hotel room and a shared bed at the fancy place down the street.

 

You become addicted to indulgence, or so you are told. They’re wrong though. It’s not indulgence. It’s living. It’s living and you find no shame in loving it.

 

You have money now, your own money - not hustled. Not stolen. You buy yourself a flat with your tournament winnings. You buy yourself the pieces and parts for the most magnificent rig the world has ever seen, and then you use it to crush others across the globe in tournaments that pay you for it. 

 

Yeongdong - Daejeon - Cheongju - Cheonan -

 

Rinse and repeat. You win again, the next Starcraft Tournament. You are the Champion. People watch you play. Hundreds of thousands flock to your streams to see you smile and win. You have become an idol, beheld on a pedestal before your entire country, before the entire world. There was once a time when you had nothing, not even a name, and now you have everything. It’s fantastic. You feel so alive.

 

You didn’t even have a name, but now everyone knows who you are, and you are adored.

 

It falls apart in 2075. This time, when the Monster rises up out of the sea, it storms across the whole country. The MEKA program failed them all because the filthy monster learns. Your tally count goes up.

 

You are recruited by the Korean military for the video gaming skills you posses. It’s a shot in the dark, made by pure deseration, because nobody in that massive MEKA hanger is soldier materiel. Not even you. You’re a fighter, yes. Merciless, of course. You had to be. But you’ve never had to be a soldier and you don’t particularly want to be one. 

  
But there is something in your blood, something in your bones, that is telling you that you must.

 

You are not a soldier, but you fly through basic training with ease because of the life skills you honed since you were nameless. You are not alone either. There are a number of rising stars among your class. One of which you recognize by gamertag initially, and then by face soon after. Dragoon wasn’t a huge name in Starcraft. It was something they dabbled in. Dragoon’s true field was in League. You had a huge respect for Dragoon. You cried when you met them. 

 

It was Sun.

 

You had cried. She had cried. You ran to her, embraced her. Spun around. Laughed. It had been so long. You thought she had died. You thought she was dead. That night you sneak into her bunk and share everything, and in the morning you wake up warm with Sun curled around you and it maybe just might be love.

 

You rise through the ranks in the MEKA program because of your burning hatred for the monsters who have chased you all your life. They lack the capacity for fear, but by the forces of everything that you are, you will make them bow to you. For every tally you were forced to carve into you, you will pay them back in full. You live ‘recklessly’. You indulge ‘too much’. You eat too much. You drink too much. You fuck too much. And you fear too little. They’re stupid, the people who tell you this. They’re stupid and filled with fear. Hana “D.Va” Song is fearless. You don’t feel fear. You become a soldier. You become a guiding light and a beautiful force. You have always loved your home. As a soldier, your fighter’s spirit is put to use. You learn to love fighting for it. You learn to love people, and now that you can, now that you have learned to love people, you want to fight for them. You want to make a difference. You  _ can  _ make a difference. If you win this, if you defeat the Monster, you’ll never have to count the dead again.

 

You’re not a good commander. That’s Sun. She was always better at strategy. She had the patience for it. You’re a better ace. You’re the one that lives for the no-plan-quick-thinking. You’re the star of the field, and when you’re on the mission, you know everyone feels just that much safer. It’s like a tier up, fighting in the MEKA. Nothing will ever beat that adrenaline rush. Nothing will ever ever top the high you get from fighting in the MEKA. You have had a taste and can never go back. 

 

For the first time, Sun doesn’t understand you. Is this what sadness tastes like? Like salt and emptiness?

 

You fight. You live to fight and you fight to live and you watch people die. People from the MEKA program die. Unlucky shots. Stupidity. Slow reflexes. Wrong place wrong time. You count the dead. You and Sun sit together in your bunk, by nothing but the light of candles as you hold the knife to your skin. She makes tallies on your back. You make tallies on hers. The dead will be remembered forever, immortalized in flesh. One by one, everyone you and Sun knew falls. Sun weeps at their funerals. You don’t. You have no tears to shed. Only blood and promises. The Omnics will pay for what they’ve done.

 

You receive a call one day, barely a month after your efforts have driven the Monster back into the sea. You answer it. They ask for you, and only you, and you accept without thought. There’s nothing left for you to fight here, but with Overwatch? There is so much left to fight with Overwatch. You had only heard the good things about them. You might have idolized them a bit. The epic tales of their battles against the Omnics during the Crisis were always incredible, shared between bunkmates long after military curfew. 

 

The day you arrive, you learn they also accepted Omnics into their order.

 

Rage filled you.

 

You cornered one, the ‘cute’ one. The ‘harmless’ Bastion unit they’d found in some field in Germany. You had to play nice. You had a reputation to uphold, your own and that of your fallen comrades. For them, you’d play nice. 

 

You look at the Bastion unit. He beeps at you. It sounds friendly. You fake a bright and bubbly smile.

  
  


“I’d tell you to die.” You chirp, high and deadly. Your smile grows sharp, wicked, and cruel. The Omnic beeps in a way that feigns confusion. Feigns fear. It’s just another lying robot because it can’t know fear, just as you can’t know peace. “I’d tell you to die, but that’s a thing people do. You’re not a person. You’re a monster.”

 

The Omnic beeps more. It almost sounds distressed. Good. Even if it’s faking it, the fear is satisfying. 

 

“Stay away from me. Because I won’t hesitate to destroy you, Omnic.”

 

You leave it.

 

(A week later, the newest recruit gets in a shitload of trouble for attempting to blow the damn thing up. It’s a pity that he was stopped before he could succeed.)

 

You participate in four missions, each an astounding success. The praise of your teammates is the cherry on top of the cake, because the adrenaline high from chasing down Talon terrorists has nothing on fighting soulless monsters. Fighting against people always trumps playing against bots. Eventually you just get too good at predicting the AI and then where does the challenge, where does the fun go?

 

(The fourth mission had the newest recruit too - the one that almost blew up the metal monstrosity. His callsign is Junkrat and you got to fight alongside him. That mission had been a  _ blast _ .)

 

Then everything falls apart again, but it’s worse than before. It’s so much worse. The results of your physicals come back, and they ruin everything.

 

You had been draped over the couch in the rec room, playing some ancient multiplayer racing game with some of the other members. You, of course, were winning. The room had been so chill. Calm. Relaxed. Just you and your triumphant laughter and the collective groans of the losers as controllers were passed around.

 

Then Dr. Zeigler walks in.

 

“I’m removing Hana and Jamison from active duty.” Dr. Zeigler announces, and your world crashes down around you. You drop your controller. Everything you are screams inside your head. Fighting is all you’re good for. People will die if you aren’t there, if you aren’t there to fight people will die and you can’t just stand by. You can’t do that anymore. You can’t keep counting the dead. You're going to run out of space. You’ll forget if you do. You’ll die if you do.

 

“No! No! NO NONONONO!” 

 

It’s not you screaming, but Junkrat. Sure, you had shot up, ramrod straight with panic etched into every fiber of your being, but it was the filthy Australian criminal that had found his voice first. Yours is still trapped in your throat, consumed by the fear of losing more people that you love. Consumed by the thought of more tallies on your soul. It’s been so long since you’ve tasted fear. 

 

Junkrat has straightened up and he towers over Dr. Zeigler, but she holds firm, fury in her eyes. She adjusts her glasses and fixes the two of you with a stern look. “It has come to my attention that both of you display very severe, dangerous signs of complex post-traumatic stress disorder … and both of you have lied about your ages.”

 

Oh.

 

Oh no.

 

Dr Zeigler looks absolutely furious. You can’t believe that science can finally tell you how old you are.

 

“You- “ She rounds on Junkrat, a sharp finger pointing, jabbing at his chest, “You are barely nineteen! And you -!” She turns to you, “You are only seventeen!” Something in her bright blue eyes breaks. Snaps. Shatters, and lets the kind light leak out until it’s dead, “I will not let Overwatch hire children to fight ever again.”

 

She’s weeping. Big fat tears fall from her eyes as you and Junkrat stare at her, uncomprehending. She hides her face in her hands, muttering about children and not-yet-fully developed brains and forever irreversible damage. There’s sounds, movement going on behind you as everyone else in the rec room springs into action. You block it all out. You’re locked up within yourself trying to understand.

 

You don’t understand.

  
  
What have you done wrong?


End file.
